


Should've Worn the Dark Slacks

by arochilton



Category: Law & Order: SVU
Genre: C'mon you know workaholic caffeine addict Barba gets desperate sometimes, Desperation, Omorashi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-22
Updated: 2016-09-22
Packaged: 2018-08-16 19:03:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,789
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8113891
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/arochilton/pseuds/arochilton
Summary: There's one setback to being a caffeine-loving workaholic A.D.A., and it doesn't help that the closest bathroom is a ways away from his office...





	

**Author's Note:**

> Rafael Barba peeing himself  
> (ﾉ◕ヮ◕)ﾉ*:・ﾟ✧

Rafael sifts through the piles of manilla envelopes on his desk, nearly gasping in grievance as stacks of papers tumble out, littering his lap. He sighs in slight exasperation as he organizes them, taking care to note that they align in at least some sort of proper order. He's not usually this meticulous, as can be observed by the slight mess atop his desk, but he's been meaning to clean up these particular files for a while. No sense in letting cases unravel into each other.

The noontime rays of sun blazing through his office curtains alert Rafael, currently nursing his fourth cup of coffee, that he should start thinking about a lunch break. He's been too focused on the busyness of the day to notice the pangs of hunger tickling his belly, let alone the pull in his bladder that has only evolved with each helping of coffee.

However, the ache in his abdomen is now hinting at the necessity of relief, and as he shifts in his chair, Rafael has to bite down on his lower lip to keep the rising whine at bay. He considers taking a breather, stepping out to the bathroom and tasting some air on his tongue besides that of the musk in his office, but he's fairly confident he can hold it another ten minutes until it's time for a lunch break.

Once he's sorted through the case files, he kicks his feet up on the desk to alleviate some of the pressure on his bladder. There, better. He pushes open his laptop, squinting a bit at its brightness, and proceeds to check his emails. He taps his fingers lightly against the keypad as the inbox refreshes, highlighting six new messages. Nothing urgent. Good.

That should do it for the morning’s agenda. The man is about to retrieve his belongings and step out for a break when his desk phone rings. Twisting his tongue into his cheek, he cradles the device against his ear, enunciating a “hello?” that echoes on the other end.

“Barba?” Benson’s voice, dripping with that all-too-recognizable tone of urgency, pummels into Rafael’s ear. “Turn on the news.”

“What is it?” he asks, reaching for the remote. His nearly full bladder twinges in protest as pressure mounts with his movement. Heaving the discomfort aside, he taps the power button and waits for the television to spring to life. He hasn't heard from the SVU in a few days; this must be some new development. Rafael finds himself begging for the story to be something he won't see himself wrapped up in for the whole afternoon; as it is, he's very much starting to regret that fourth cup of coffee and the several drops that remain in the blue container, taunting him.

“Bad news,” comes Liv’s response, and as Rafael’s television warms up to display an image, he vaguely feels his mouth fall open. “And it looks like we’re gonna be busy for the next few days.”

Rafael glances at the writing crawling along the bottom of the screen, overlapping the bodies of aghast NY1 reporters. “PRINCIPAL OF LOCAL PRIVATE ELEMENTARY SCHOOL ACCUSED OF CHILD MOLESTATION BY DOZENS OF STUDENTS,” it reads. The screen switches to a closeup of a crying mother as a news anchor attempts to comfort her while simultaneously conducting an interview. Tasteless.

“Ah,” Rafael finally manages. “Very bad.” Out of habit, he reaches for his coffee. By the time he realizes his mistake, the drink has already slipped down his throat. He nearly chokes, and the coughing that bursts from his chest causes his lower stomach to churn uncomfortably.

“We’ve got a few parents storming the gates here already,” Liv relays, luckily sidestepping Rafael’s coughing fit. “I thought we’d better have Carisi and Rollins calm them down a bit before we come talk to you in person. Get you up to speed.”

Barba nods idly before realizing he's engaged in a verbal conversation. “Sounds fine, yeah.” He pauses a moment, crossing his legs to keep his bladder calm. His tongue feels foreign inside his dry mouth, his forehead sticky with perspiration. Everything is happening quickly, too quickly. “I assume the guy’s claiming innocence?”

“He's blaming it on the kids’ wild imaginations,” Liv explains, distaste coating her words. “And his own Vice Principal.”

“Of course he is.” Rafael rolls his eyes at the typical display of pointing-fingers immaturity. “You'll be by my office this afternoon?” Blood pounds in Rafael’s ears too audibly for comfort.

“In about a half hour, more or less,” Olivia confirms. Rafael bites back a celebratory moan. At least he’ll have time to relieve his bladder before the case boils to hell and back.

“Sounds good,” he tells her. The two bid their farewells and Rafael drops the phone into its cradle. A glance at his watch informs him that it's 12:15.

The pressure on his bladder has skyrocketed. At this point, he figures it'll take a miracle if he can walk to the restroom without an accident. He's calculating his options when the door to his office is opened and Carmen steps inside. Rafael surveys her with wide eyes, resisting the urge to cram a hand between his thighs to keep himself from leaking.

“I was thinking of heading out for lunch,” she informs him. “Do you want me to bring you back anything, or are you going to go out yourself? ”

Rafael has taken to tapping his foot on the ground rhythmically, relieved that the soft padding of the carpet keeps his movements from being too revealing. “I thought so, but now I might not have the time. SVU is dropping by soon.”

“Oh, was that who was on the phone?” Carmen offers, thankfully oblivious to Rafael’s cheeks, which are flaming pink despite his arrogantly proud demeanor. “I figured. What’s up?”

Gritting his teeth, Rafael searches for words. “School scandal…” A particularly strong shudder wracks his body, chilling him. “Allegations. Kids involved.”

Carmen delivers a frown. “Damn. Well, good luck, and let me know if you need help with anything,” she turns to leave, then stops. “Oh, and do you want me to bring you back lunch?”

Rafael, distracted by his desperation, barely hears her. “Just a sub...would be fine.” _And a portable toilet, ha ha_. He glances downward, half-expecting to see a dark stain springing to life inside his slacks. The thought of such an image only worsens his need, and his fists clench atop his knees.

Carmen tilts her head quizzically at Rafael’s strange movements, but does not pry. “I’ll be back,” she announces cheerily, and closes the door.

An audible moan slips through Rafael’s mouth once he's alone again, shaking violently. His legs have turned to jelly, and he can't resist wedging a hand between his thighs, seeking not prevention but elongation. He squirms on his knuckles, grinding against them, wincing at the pleasurable sensation that arises somewhere between his cock and his bladder.

He's damning himself for all that coffee. He _knows_ his limits, _knows_ that caffeine weakens his bladder’s abilities, but he's failing nonetheless. And now he has to pay for it.

Wetness drips against his hand, and for a moment Rafael convinces himself it's just sweat, but then he pulls his hand away to reveal a small dark stain, about the size of a quarter, on the front of his pants. _Why_ exactly had he chosen to wear gray today? What had been wrong with his black trousers? God, even those dark gray pants would have been a better choice.

Rafael swallows hard, saliva catching in his throat. Maybe this is okay. Only a little bit has leaked out, just enough to take the edge off. Perhaps he can walk to the restroom, yes, with his hands covering the spot. It’s small enough. Confidence licking at his tense muscles, Rafael stands up and his bladder lets go.

He grips the edges of his desk in surprise, gasping as urine streams down the legs of his pants, warm and wet on his legs. The fabric of his pants feels heavy, distinctly heavy, over his thighs. He can feel it sticking to his skin, violated and soaked. The stream keeps going, seeping into his polka-dot socks, pooling around his brogue shoes. His eyes are squeezed shut, not daring to look at the mess, praying it isn't as bad as it feels—or sounds.

God, the way he _hears_ pee hissing through his pants and splattering on the floor. It sounds like an endless stream of rain, only faster and more condensed. His nostrils flare and he catches a hint of the stench. It’s primal and steaming and he can practically smell the coffee, released before his body could even process it, tinging the air.

It takes at least a minute for the stream to slow down. Rafael’s pants are baggy now, soaked through, and he swears he's standing in a small lake. When the thunderstorm finally reduces to a light drizzle, he allows one eye to open and glance downwards.

It's worse, much worse. His pants are at least five tones darker, almost black now in lieu of their previous light gray. His whole crotch is wet and heavy, and the slacks are wet even around the ankles. His socks are soggy, his shoes squeaking as he sways a bit. He's not standing in a lake, but a river. His urine has soaked the carpet, stained it, and dripped down under his desk and around it.

Carefully, he wrings the excess piss from his crotch, wincing as dampness comes in contact with his hands, then streaks down. He repeats this tactic again, on his thighs, on his legs, until his pants feel remarkably lighter, hands wet, the smell of pee somehow becoming even stronger.

He stands there, helpless, mind racing for an answer. He shifts his weight, whining quietly at the repulsiveness of stepping down on the soggy carpet, and grabs his blazer from the back of his desk chair. Conspicuously, he holds it to his stomach, letting it hang down and cover his crotch. His legs are still visible, of course, but he could always make up a story. He spilled coffee on himself, yes, that's good, and it's not exactly a lie, either.

Rafael is stepping around his desk, jacket hanging limply in his hands, when Olivia Benson and Sonny Carisi walk through his door, heads held high, walking that swag-laced SVU stride.

He stops in his tracks, face drained of color, standing there with piss-soaked slacks and hair glazed with sweat. He stares at the two visitors, any possible dialogue caught in his throat. He feels his legs start to shake again of their own will.

It’s Liv who finally speaks.

“Hi, Barba.”


End file.
